Mission: Zanzibar
by RuthieGreen
Summary: Late October 1905, on a train from Toronto to Grand Central Station, our heroes get caught up in something larger than they expected. No mystery, straight light adventure and hopefully some laughs. (And oh I borrowed a few things here and there!) Thank you Maureen & the show writers for allowing us to play in your world.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is my first straight, light adventure story so I thought I'd like to have some fun. For the purists in the audience I have taken a few minor liberties with early 20th century mail cars. It helps to hear the dialogue in the actors' voices. Enjoy!**

././././././././././././././././././././././././.

"Mission: Zanzibar"

 **Chapter One**

Outside, Night was moonless and still over the landscape.

Inside, the overhead electric lighting went out just as their carriage jolted sharply, plunging the train compartment into deep blackness and immediately emphasizing the four-beat rhythmic pulse of the rails underneath the floor: _**Clack, Clack, Click-clack…Clack, Clack, Click-clack….**_

Three things occurred nearly simultaneously with the loss of illumination: a whoosh of air, a soft thud sounded on the floor, then a woman's scream (or was it the train's wheels scraping or the steam whistle of a passing engine?) obscured sounds of the compartment door sliding shut. This all happened so fast it left the passengers dumbstruck…

…" _Bloody Hell!"_ broke the silence. One by one, small hand-held torches pierced the gloom, fetched from 3 pockets, one reticule, a Gladstone bag and a leather satchel.

Six lights were more than enough for the small space, lighting up two plush benches, with Margaret Brackenreid, her husband Thomas and Henry Higgins on one, facing Julia Ogden, William Murdoch and George Crabtree on the other.

"Well, what was that all about?" Margaret voiced, pointing her torch around the space. "I thought these trains were well equipped and well run. If I knew this compartment was going to be faulty I never would have negotiated for it!" Sounds of movement and irritated inquires could be heard in the adjacent corridor as other passengers apparently fumbled in the dark.

"Margaret! How do you have one of those?" Thomas complained about the light in her hand. "Murdoch, I thought you only made one especially for me?" His wounded look was priceless.

"As did I sir," Henry examined the torch in his own hand, comparing it to the much larger one in Dr. Ogden's, all of a sudden feeling less-endowed than he did before.

Julia noticed Henry's look in the spooky glow and merely rolled her eyes while her husband's gaze slid this way and that—exactly the way he looks when he is caught out on something.

"What's this?" George reached for a stiff, tan coloured rectangle on the compartment floor, turning it over in one hand while playing his light over the surface. "I swear it was not here before—I think someone tossed it in when the door opened."

"And did you hear that screech? Sent a chill through me it did, especially this close to Halloween!" Henry also looked at what seemed to be an envelope suspiciously, taking it from George. "How odd." He peered closely at some writing. "It says 'D-7' on the back flap, but it is not addressed to anyone."

"May I?" William requested it, examining the outside carefully with his hand-held, when the lights came glaring back on. Everyone blinked as their eyes readjusted.

"Here, now. Let me see that." Brackenreid put out a meaty hand, into which his detective reluctantly surrendered the item.

"Shall we assume it is for us? Perhaps a message from the unreachable beyond?" Henry asked with a rather excited face.

"Oh! Don't be so dramatic, Henry, that is absurd! I am certain it was left by the previous occupants of the compartment," George chastised. "Perhaps under the seat and just slid out when the train went bump. You are letting your imagination run away with you…" George was subject to five sets of disbelieving eyes this time, and merely shrugged. "I mean All Hallows' Eve is not for a couple weeks yet, so the Spirits are still confined to the afterworld and cannot possibly be up to any mischief…."

William coughed.

The sound of ripping paper brought everyone's attention to Inspector Brackenreid, who uncovered one yellow, very translucent page from the envelope. He fetched his reading glasses and silently scanned the writing while his companions held their breath.

Impatient as usual, Julia was the first to demand an answer. "Well, Inspector, what does it say? Tell us please to solve this mystery. And do be careful, it looks like the page is… well it looks like it is _dissolving_!"

Brackenreid harrumphed and began: "It reads: _Dear Commander Briggs, the Imperial Mandate Squad's assignment is to prevent Mr. Fessenden's prototype from falling into the wrong hands. Malthus Owens, a shadowy international thief, plans to steal and sell it to the highest bidder via a 'Zanzibar Marketplace' scheme. We believe several interested parties have already been assassinated or otherwise eliminated. We understand there are only three remaining potential buyers who will board the train: Ivan Korsky from the Russian Tsar; Gerhard Kleinhart representing Kaiser Wilhelm; and Frances Honore De la Roche, Morocco's emissary. Each has paid one thousand dollars on behalf of their respective governments just to be included in the bidding, with the winner being guaranteed to receive the stolen device after the train arrives in New York..._

… _Your task, is to allow the thief, the winning bidder and the losing bidders all to believe that the transaction was successful, while securing Mr. Fessenden's device for His Majesty's government. No one must know of the threat, including the Canadian Officers who are in charge of the device until it is given over to the Lord Admiralty once the train arrives in New York. You will find dossiers on the thief and each of the bidders secreted in your quarters, and your standard selection of supplies and equipment marked in the usual way. I am sure you understand the gravity of the situation if that device were to fall into the wrong hands. If you fail your assignment, the Prime Minister authorizes you to destroy the baggage cars to obliterate the prototype. As usual, if you or any one of your squad members is captured or killed, the Home Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. Good luck, Commander…_ "

George was stunned. "Inspector! That sounds quite fantastical."

Brackenreid swore again, more or less under his breath out of respect for the ladies (and to avoid his wife's elbow.) "The British Empire, Morocco, Germany and Russia all competing for an advantage. There is already an international crisis going on over Morocco. Will this invention bring on a new war?"

"Sir…" William cautioned. "Your hands…"

Engrossed by the message, no one noticed the page on which it was written had become a limp and sticky mess with holes wherever the inspector had touched it. Julia had been right—the page was indeed melting. Trying to let go of it only resulted in more shearing. William gave the inspector a handkerchief in an effort to save the sheet, but that only proceeded to muddle it even more. By the time they were done, only a canary-coloured stain remained on the linen square and on Brackenreid's hands. The compartment smelled like a citrus cordial. "Doctor, what is this?" he asked.

"Good Gracious!' Julia exclaimed. "How extraordinary. Inspector, I believe that was made out of something akin to Jell-O. A thin sheet of gelatin, which started reacting to the heat and moisture of your hands and in the air…"

Before anyone could stop him, Brackenreid licked his fingers. "Aye. Lemon. And not very good." He smacked his lips. "Too sweet."

"Thomas! Never mind that. What on earth is going on here?" Margaret, ever practical, summoned her husband out of his reverie. "Who is Mr. Briggs and what preposterous thing has he got to do with us?"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 **So- reviews gratefully accepted (you can wait 'till the end) but if I managed to amuse, even get a LOL, I want to know.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"I think we have stumbled into espionage," George speculated, his imagination warming up now that there was a different explanation than ghosts. "You know, government agents, a mission to undertake for King and country, a secret communication—then you have to eat the message when you are done with it."

Four voices, responded ominously in unison: _"Terrence…Meyers."_

Margaret Brackenreid looked around, bewildered.

Julia scoffed. "Ridiculous. I rather think it is an elaborate prank, don't you? Perhaps one of the other police units who was passed over for the honour of representing Canada at the Law Enforcement Conference to which we are travelling, is having a joke on us at your expense," Julia objected sensibly, hoping to forestall a glower from her husband. "Or something to entertain us…?"

Sharp rapping on the compartment door interrupted the ensuing discussion. A uniformed conductor presented his compliments before announcing the border crossing over the International Rail Road Bridge in Buffalo. "Ladies, Gentlemen: please remain in your compartment, and I must advise you, for your safety, not to use the gangway between your car and the next one forward. The door latch is not secure and will be repaired while we are going through customs." He closed the door and moved on.

"Mrs. Brackenreid? What did you mean you negotiated for our accommodations?" William quizzed her. "I thought our tickets were procured by the constabulary."

Margaret smiled prettily, with a decided glint in her eye. "Why, yes, that is true. However I was the one who actually made all the arrangements and since I was the first one at the station, I was able to get an improvement on our tickets." She looked around, plainly proud of herself as she smoothed her skirts. "Well, you don't think the _constabulary_ sprung for this private travel compartment and a sleeping compartment for you and your wife and me and my husband, did you?"

She grimaced at her husband's shocked expression. "Thomas! I overheard one of the ticket masters say several compartments were going empty at the last minute because passengers on a connecting train were not coming. Something about a moose on the tracks. I explained to him who you were and that we were representing Canada." As if in conclusion, Margaret sat her reticule soundly on her lap.

"So…you implied that it was their, what, patriotic duty to let us use them?" William asked cautiously. His wife was more enthusiastic.

"That is quite brilliant, Margaret!" Julia enthused.

"Why thank you, _Julia_." Margaret acknowledged both the compliment and the familiarity which had developed between the two women.

George and Henry were much more interested in the letter their superior just read, talking over each other. George got his question out first. "So…was that letter supposed to go to the original occupants of this coach?"

"Even so, now it sounds more like an ill-conceived adventure novel, George." Henry turned to the inspector. "What do you think sir? Sir…?"

William prompted Brackenreid as well. "You don't suppose this is anything for us to follow up? That sounds rather, impractical." William was puzzled by his superior's expression. It revealed that, more than merely being annoyed at a prank or his hands becoming stained, Brackenreid was troubled.

The train was slowing, making its way over the bridge from Fort Erie to Black Rock, blowing the engine's whistle while the wheels clacked and sung.

Margaret elbowed her husband. "Thomas? What is it? Why are you frowning so?"

Brackenreid winced, then took his glasses off slowly. "Well, if you ask me, I think this is, er….was the genuine article." He sat up straight and let his sober blue eyes get the attention of his companions. "Normally, I'd agree with you, doctor, that someone was having a go at us." He brought out the envelope. "However, 'D-7' might just reference Division Seven. When I was in the military, Division Seven was rumoured to be an elite squad of six men who, shall we say, solved problems outside of normal channels."

William's mind was working. "Sir. That name, Mr. Fessenden. Reginald Fessenden is an inventor working on electricity and wireless radio transmissions. He received a patent in 1902 for the use of an alternating-current dynamo, producing a continuous train of radiant waves of substantially uniform strength for a transmitter. Although he has been living in the States, he is in fact Canadian. Perhaps a device of his is at play?"

"William. You think this is serious, don't you?" Julia was not at all surprised her husband recalled reading about an obscure patent—especially one involving is beloved electricity. No one else seemed surprised, either.

"What sort of thingamabob could Mr. Fessenden have thought up that would be all that interesting?" Brackenreid was worried about the military implications.

William's eyes lit up. "Oh, sir…" he rhapsodized. "Surveillance. Battlefield communications. Long range tracking. Visualizing objects…"

"Bloody hell…" the inspector clearly did not like the answer, repeating his habitual protest.

George, however was convinced. "We have to take this on."

"The fate of the Empire might be resting in our very hands." Henry said this so earnestly no one cared to argue. "The message indicates there are Canadian Officers on the train, don't we need to warn them?" Henry stood by the door as if to run the errand himself.

William nodded. "I believe you will find them in the first coach right after the baggage cars. On the way back from checking on our packing crates I did notice two men in plain-clothes whom I thought could be Pinkerton's, but perhaps they are Dominion Police? Or even a detachment from the Royal North-West Mounted Police?"

"Stop!" Brackenreid hissed. "Didn't you hear the orders? It said that the authorities must remain unaware of this. This must be ordered by the highest levels of His Majesty's government if the Canadian authorities are to be kept out of it. No. If we are to take this seriously, then we should take it all seriously. That includes leaving the DP in the dark. Murdoch. How long before we get to Grand Central Station?"

"The train is due to pull in at six-ten." William was worried about the original purpose of the trip, hoping there would be no delays. _Six o'clock should be plenty of time,_ he thought, _to attend the nine A.M. lecture on "Identifying and Measuring Alcohol Intoxication via a Sample of the Suspect's Lung Exhalations,"_ with a device George Crabtree christened with the unlikely name: "Lung-a-izer."

"That gives us ten hours, give or take," Brackenreid calculated. The plan had been for all of them to head to bed after the border crossing—the married couples to their sleeping compartments and the constables to use the travel car benches to sleep.

Henry smiled. "So, how hard can it be? We distract the thief, the buyers and the authorities, then switch out one of the crates in the baggage car," he said helpfully, oblivious of the groan he elicited.

"It seems there is supposed to be a team of men executing this plan," Julia pointed out. "We know nothing about how they were going to do this."

"And we have no idea what this invention of Mr. Fessenden's is or looks like." William agreed with his wife that there were too many unanswered questions. "Or what a 'Zanzibar Marketplace' is."

Brackenreid was undeterred. "So we find out. Instead of a luxury snooze, you'd better get crackin'. If there's information in those berths, let's go get it. George, Henry, search this compartment as well and we'll meet back here. Ladies, as soon as we are across the border, perhaps you should retire while we work."

Julia and Margaret shared a glance. "Margaret?"

"Julia?" The inspector's wife stood. "Thomas, you did say Division Seven was a six person operation, did you not? Doctor Ogden and I are going to do a little surveillance. We'll be back before customs checks this coach."

William's eyes registered sarcastic surprise –not at Julia's behavior, but at the Inspector's, who flushed, mostly at being found out to be unable to control his own wife, no matter how he preached to his detective the virtues thereof.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"….So, Henry, now what?" George had one hand on his hip and one under his chin, eying the empty compartment. "The inspector thinks something is hidden in here; I wonder where we start."

Henry finished rolling down the shades, sweeping his hand on both sides. "You're kidding, right?"

"Well, there is not much here. Solid walls and floor. Two benches and a luggage rack." George turned over one cushion, finding nothing underneath, then its twin on the other side. The bench itself appeared to be solid wood under his knuckles.

"Didn't you hide things when you were a youngster?" Henry's snigger spoke of disbelief.

" _Hide_ things?"

"Yes, George. _Hide_ things. You know…in books, under your mattress, in the roller shades, the bottom of your trunk, in your pillowcase, under a floor board, in your shoes, under the fern, a box in the barn, inside the chimney flue…." Henry was pulling the caps off the end of the luggage racks then pulled at the seat backs to make sure they were built in. "In the heat vents, inside the bedframe, behind the wood shed, under the ceiling medallion, in the attic, above the door frame, in the root cellar, between the curtains…?"

George crossed his arms. "You seem to know a lot about hiding things..."

"…In the base of the hall clock, in your sister's stuffed toy, the piano bench, between the hay bales, inside your shoes, under the stove, buried in the back yard, on the back of a picture…"

"Henry? If only you applied your prowess at hiding things to finding evidence in the course of our police investigations!"

"Achem…. _Hide_ things you did not want your foster parents to find, or your Aunties…" Henry twitched his eyes sideways.

George sounded offended. "I had no need to hide things, Henry. I was an exceptionally good lad, and, er…there was not much that was not out in the open anyway."

Henry lowered his voice. "Umm… _naughty_ things…"

"…Ohhh." George made his eyes get big and round. He fished for his penknife. "Henry, give me that seat cushion, will you?"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Reconnaissance was productive. As soon as the United States Customs agent had moved on to the next compartment, the group shared their findings.

"Sir...um, sirs, ladies… Henry and I found these folders sewn between the cushions of the seats. This appears to be a mechanical drawing." George handed that to the detective before explaining what else was found, while Henry passed around photographs. "Malthus Owens is the second son of Lord Fallsmouth, an Irish aristocrat who is against Home Rule. Father and son had a falling out over politics and money: his father had a lot of both and the son none of either, propelling Malthus all over Europe gambling and deal-making by trading on his aristocratic background. The intelligence report suggests he started out purloining things as a lark and it turned out to be so lucrative, he just got deeper and deeper into it. He seems to have no real political alliances other than sticking it to whatever his father values-it is all about the game and the pay-off for him."

"And the potential buyers?" Brackenreid shot across.

Henry took over. "It says Mr. Korsky seems to be a patriot, worried about a Russian war with Japan, and hoping the Tsar will eventually allow a constitutional monarchy. He is an ex-army captain who lost three sons in the last conflict. Herr Kleinhart, on the other hand, may be in it as much for himself as he is for his government. He has taken a turn as a politician, ambassador and advisor to the mercurial German Kaiser. The dossier suggests he might have been responsible for eliminating some of the competing bidders and there is no guarantee that he will not turn around and ransom the device again."

"And Mademoiselle De la Roche? Apparently the fairer sex is also up to the task?" Julia inquired on behalf herself and Margaret.

Henry coloured. "Miss De la Roche was trained as a singer and actress. She is actually a… well a courtesan who is currently the favourite of Sultan Abdelaziz of Morocco. Apparently Morocco feels threatened on all sides by France, Germany and the British Empire, and may be looking for a tactical advantage. Miss De la Roche has also been quite the adventurer, traveling up the Amazon, climbing mountains and the like. She is supposedly travelling back to Europe after having visited the magnetic north pole, if you can believe it."

"Oh, yes! Roald Amundsen verified the location in 1903…" William looked up from studying the drawing and would have gone on, except for the collection of glares. He shut his mouth.

Margaret directed attention to her husband. "Thomas, what is the plan and what did you find?"

"I think Commander Briggs had a rather simple plan: distract all the principles, while another squad member deals with the device. It seems his men included having skills of a sharpshooter/enforcer, a pick pocket, a mechanical and electrical expert, a gambler and an actor. In our compartment I found a suitcase full of clothing and disguise items to use."

William added. "And I found blood on the gangway floor and door." He waggled his torch, demonstrating it could also be used for UV light. "By the pattern of splatter, I conclude the blood was the result of an assault. The worst case scenario is that it came from the person who delivered this message." They all got quiet upon appreciating that tidbit. "There was nothing hidden in our sleeping compartment. There are supposed to be other items, probably what is needed to create a fake device, to be found elsewhere on the train, but we have no idea what they might be or where. I also need an idea how to identify the proper packing crate since I'd estimate there are upwards of a hundred of them in the baggage car!"

Julia handed over the collected photographs after she and Margaret viewed them. "We saw each of these persons in the salon car, by peeking through the connecting gangway."

The inspector laughed. All eyes went to Brackenreid. "It was bloody nice of them to collect themselves for us that way," he commented wryly. "We have to keep them there."

"How do you propose we do that, Inspector?" Henry said anxiously. "It seems rather improbable."

Julia weighed in. "I think we have to understand their individual psychological drives to know what will hold their attention. Miss De la Roche might be distracted by a young man, someone she could toy with, for instance. Herr Kleinhart might respond to a challenge of some kind, as would Mr. Owens."

"And how about Mr. Korsky?" Brackenreid vacillated between skepticism and interest.

"Did you not say Mr. Korsky lost three sons? That is his tender spot," Margaret offered definitively, much to her husband's amazement. Julia concurred.

"But sir, we have no idea what this device looks like and where it is located, other than presumably in a baggage car." William worried. "This deception will fall apart."

Brackenreid shook his head. "No, I don't think it will. None of the bidders has any scientific background. You can be the one to search the baggage car and make the switch using your best scientific guess."

William tapped the page in his hand. "This is a schematic only, not actual plans." William hoped he kept the whining out of his voice. "Inspector. I have no equipment, no supplies. It is highly unlikely I can recreate a delicate scientific instrument or device without extensive plans, wiring, components, a work bench, a soldering station…"

"For God's sake, Murdoch. _Improvise!_ Think this through. Remember it does not have to work, it just has to look like it does. The New York Commissioner of Police, William McAdoo, expressly invited Station House No. 4 to represent the entire Canadian Constabulary at this law enforcement conference, in no small measure due to your scientific reputation…and a nudge from President Roosevelt if one is to believe rumours. The bidders are buying a prototype, an unproven technology, which they probably have never actually examined. If it does not work they'll still have their scientists tinker over it, won't they? The rest of us will keep them occupied while you work."

"I have an idea, sir," George piped up.

"Why don't Henry and I take over as stewards? That would put us in the perfect position to keep an eye on them?"

Henry leaned forward. "Good idea, George. But how will we get the workers to cooperate?"

Margaret's chin came up, a small smile at the corner of her mouth. "Julia? Perhaps you have a concoction that can render the bartender pliable, or even unconscious?" She pointed to the leather case on the floor. "Do you have something that will do the job, doctor?"

Brackenreid was nervous at the idea and clearly curious.

"It may be against my Hippocratic Oath, but I think I can supply something—oral heroin perhaps. You are aware it can make people nod off," Julia answered with a straight face.

The inspector let that pass as he scripted out his own plan. "Excellent! The number one thing to do here is to distract whoever the guards are, and these three man and one lady so no one checks on the cargo. In the salon I will play at being a gambler looking for a bit of fun and try to engage them in a game of poker, ply them with some alcohol perhaps. I might even get them to believe I am another bidder, throw a spanner in the works." He smiled broadly at the idea of using his thespian skills, moving his hat brim to a jaunty angle. "You two rummage round in your luggage and find some clothing to pass yourselves off as service employees while Murdoch here reconnoiters the baggage car and comes up with his shopping list."

Fortunately, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his wife take in a breath to speak. _I need to shut that down, right proper_ , he thought. "And you two ladies," he said forcefully, "I think you should lock yourselves in one of the sleeping compartments for your own safety. You heard Murdoch. Someone has already drawn blood. I think I can speak for the detective and the constables, that knowing you are safe will take one big worry off of us so we can concentrate on what we have to do."

Julia saw William's face display several odd contortions; she also noticed he did not dispute the inspector's sentiment. She sent a warning glance to Margaret, grasped her Gladstone and stood, handing 2 small phials of clear liquid to the inspector. With a brilliant smile, she gestured to the other woman with a flourish and a wink. "I thought it was impossible, but chivalry is still alive. Gentlemen, we shall see you later." Arm in arm with the inspector's wife, the two of them exited towards one of the sleeping compartments.

The ladies swept into the corridor, leaving William glad that Julia was with Mrs. Brackenreid to keep the inspector's wife safe.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"All right men!" Brackenreid spoke with authority, inspecting his troops. He'd spruced up his own habiliments by adding a sumptuous silk cravat and the top hat he packed for the Metropolitan opera in New York, featuring Enrico Caruso—never mind it also cost him a new dress for Margaret.

Henry had a sleek black cutaway evening suit on (courtesy of his courting of Miss Newsome) with his hair oiled and parted down the middle, and his best 'lady-killer' expression on his face. George sported his own, more modest suit, close enough in appearance to a steward's, complete with white gloves. "You two both look the parts, bugalugs," he said approvingly; to Murdoch, a man who possessed an unknown number of nearly identical dark suits, he only shrugged.

"Sir—this Zanzibar Marketplace scheme, how does that work?" Henry was puzzled. "One would think, as rivals, these individuals would not want to have anything to do with each other—wouldn't this all be better conducted in secrecy?"

"Good point," Brackenreid agreed. "I have been trying to work that out. Whatever it is, the scheme is clever. The bidders probably have until the train pulls into the station to submit their sealed offers. The device is delivered to the winner. Until then they want to size each other up as well as keep tabs on each other—so no one cheats."

George made a disgusted sound. "No honour among thieves?"

Brackenreid laughed & gestured, "It's like a poker game where you don't play the _cards,_ you really play the other player. What's the plan then, detective?"

William began his lecture. The four of them looked at a drawing of the train he had pinned to the wall of the compartment. "This train is traversing five hundred sixty-two miles from Toronto to Grand Central Station in a bit more than 14 hours. The train is almost conventionally configured: engine, tender, mail storage car, Railway Post Office car, baggage and small freight delivery, large freight, then passenger coaches, dining car, pass-through sleeping cars, premium coaches with private travel and sleeping compartments, then the lounge or bar car. The final car is the caboose of course."

A sigh escaped Brackenreid. "You said, _almost_ conventionally configured—I take it there is a fly in the ointment."

"Yes. A passenger train isn't simply assembled and carried from point A to point B. Individual cars have separate origins and destinations and are shuffled, added and removed as the train proceeds. The overnight train from Toronto to New York City stops in Buffalo where it may even change engines and can be reconfigured to add cargo, mail, and passengers etcetera, then will only stop again when the engine needs refueling rather than in every city or town. Those stops are only for coal and water. It is remarkably efficient; no stop takes very long. The problem is, while you were getting dressed I learned from a porter that in Buffalo this train added a freight car after the lounge car, and we have no idea if it is a new car or the original one from Toronto. Now we have two ends of the train to search." William pointed to his illustration and just how far apart those two locations were.

"And the purported thief and bidders are in the lounge, close to that last cargo car. Makes you think that they know something we don't, eh?" George stated.

William nodded, glancing at his timepiece. "We have Canadian Officers on guard watching the front of the train, the buyers watching the back of the train, all with roughly nine hours to take care of this."

"A two-pronged attack." Brackenreid seemed to relish the challenge. "We'd best be at it. Give me a ten minute head start. I will get the bartender to share a drink with me, dose him with the heroin from Dr. Ogden, then George, you slide him to the side and secure him out of sight. Then you take over serving the guests, while Henry pretends to be another steward. And between the three of us we keep everyone occupied while Murdoch does his business."

William rubbed his brow. "Actually, Inspector I think Henry will do better in the salon….He, err… has more experience at going under cover and George has more experience with assisting with mechanical inventions."

"And I have an idea about my role." Henry accepted the praise with a proud smile and a wink.

George wondered aloud. "How will you find the crate, sir?"

"I took the liberty of looking at all the materials we recovered, finding a notation which suggests the relative size of the crate and it makes sense that it would be positioned to be the first item off when we get to New York. I also have some ideas about how it is marked—I believe we must use the original crate to pull this off—even if the bidders have never seen the contents they might be aware of the crate's marking to make sure the winner gets the proper crate." William pointed to George. "You can come with me to the front of the train to help distract the Canadian guards since I can investigate those baggage cars while the train is moving. If the crate is there then I can stop looking and you can help me make the switch. If is it not, I will need to find out when the next stop is and for how long, so that I can do my work in the rear car." The skepticism was plain on his face. He took in another breath…

"So. Easy-peasy," Brackenreid deadpanned his interruption. The inspector clapped William on the back to squelch the complaint he knew was coming. "We need to run this like a well-oiled machine. A military exercise," Brackenreid paused, "or a football game where there is a fake to the left while the ball is driven right up the middle." He was pleased with the analogy, and extended it:

"The ladies have scouted the opposition for us. I will be a mid-fielder, Higgins, you are an attacking full back, and you Crabtree are a defender. Murdoch will be our forward. We will use a strategy I came up with for the gold medal game…"

William just looked at the constables in confusion—getting blank stares from them as well. "Sir," he interrupted the inspector with another pained expression. "I think we understand. Please proceed…Henry will give you the ten minutes…."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

William and George did not wait, working out the details as they made their way forward. The sticking point was exactly how to get around the presumed Dominion Police men into the baggage car without being blocked entirely or arousing suspicion. Sabotaging the actual train was out of the question. George came up with several suggestions including a smoke-bomb, using a blowgun or sling shot to render them unconscious, or announcing exotic snakes were loose on the train, while William was trying out more straight forward options such as George faking a heart attack or manufacturing another emergency to draw the officers out of their duties.

George had a brainstorm: "Sir, perhaps we don't need too much deception, costumes or fantastical excuses. Although I think a blow gun still has possibilities…"

"George!" William cut him off in frustration. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you _are_ the famous Detective William Murdoch, after all," George offered slyly. "Why not just tell them you wish to check on your crate again, or have a professional chat-up with them…"

William paused, then grunted in understanding. "Or ask to send a wireless telegram from the mail car on some sort of official business?" He smiled, and examined George more closely. "But I do think a change of costume is necessary after all."

After retracing their steps and a quick turnaround later, Detective William Murdoch and Constable George Crabtree entered the dining car which was closing for the night. On a hunch, George wheedled the pantry attendant out of a few items and carried a box with the contents forward to the passenger cars.

"George, I should be able to identify the proper baggage car relatively quickly, even if some crates have been taken on or taken off or rearranged, because if I can locate my crates…"

"Or our 'Distance Rotary Observation Navigation Engine', George mentioned.

"Yes—or that." William was ambivalent about George's contraption based on one if his _Jumping Jack_ stories, but since they'd worked on it together William had relented about bringing it. "If I find that, we can be relatively certain that car is the only location for Mr. Fessenden's device since it was packed in Toronto."

"And the proper crate?"

William patted his pocket. "I think it will be invisibly marked with something that can be seen in Ultraviolet light. That makes sense. It will still be dark when we arrive in New York—what better way to instantly spot the crate?" He placed his hands behind his back. "I think I can interest the Dominion Police officers in the conference we are traveling to—for all we know they may be attending after their guard duty is over—perhaps it is their 'cover' story as well? I am sure I can come up with something interesting and diverting. Perhaps we can discourse on bullet comparison or Locard's exchange principle…" he said, catching George's eye.

George just smiled. "When we get there, why don't you let me start the conversation….?"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

As Brackenreid threaded his way through to the back of the train, his puffed-out chest and cheerful enthusiasm for a challenge was slowly being punctured by the gravity of the situation. _Christ! What was I even thinking? This scheme is more addled than anything George Crabtree ever cooked up!_ He started to wonder if his Olympic gold medal had gone to his head. Did his South American adventure with James Pendrick, the charade of being suddenly younger, the aftermath of Murdoch being accused of murder…did those dire events cause him to be more reckless than he had been before?

Or was it that success with his men, _these three men in particular_ , had started him feeling invincible? _Why did he think the four of them could even go so far as to organize a pissing contest at a brewery?_ He shook his head to scatter those doubts, fixing his intentions on how he was going to hoodwink a handful of opportunists, one of whom seemed to be an assassin, while dodging an unknown assailant roaming around. The price of failure was too horrible to entertain. His steps slowed: the entrance to his target was right ahead.

He shuddered, grateful Margaret was safely tucked away. He did not want to have her see him if he faltered. _I do not want to have to see the disappointment in her face if I fail_. He pushed the door open. _I do not want to see…._

…. _Margaret!_

…In the carmen-red the gown he bought her for the opera…or at least the bodice portion of the dress, minus the lace edging and with a skirt drawn up to show off her slender legs and the fine heels her stockinged feet wore. Margaret… his prim and proper, abstemious, wife….who was leaning forward on a small table, laughing coquettishly with Malthus Owen over a set of dice.

Margaret caught his eye, and _actually winked!_ He was so gob-smacked, he almost did not see Dr. Ogden, bedecked in a fine sea-green gown with an ostrich feather in her hair holding court at another table, with an audience, including Herr Kleinhart and Mr. Korsky, rapt with attention.

"Ah! You did come." Margaret waved him over to make introductions in a sultry voice. "Lord Malthus, you said you might be looking for a game of chance, something cut-throat, I believe? I met this gentleman earlier, and he promised me he was going to join me for a drink." She held her hand out.

Brackenreid took it, kissed it and pronounced himself charmed, before turning to Mr. Owen, wondering what he was going to call himself. _Why had I not thought of this yet?_ "My lord? May I introduce myself?" Furiously he reached for a name. "James…Phelps." _Where did that come from?_ He'd almost said James Pendrick! _The first thing that popped into my head._ He bowed slightly and removed his hat, heart pounding.

"My pleasure. Malthus Owen at your service," Owen smiled at Margaret. "Miss Daisy Plummer here overstates my title, which belongs to my father."

"How soon the colonials forget." Brackenreid tossed off, needing a moment to gather his thoughts. "I did come for a drink, but a cigar and a spot of gambling will do me as well. First, let me get us some refreshment." He excused himself, hoping his bemusement was not too obvious.

 _What in Hell's name was Margaret doing, pretending to be a…a what? Adventuress? Courtesan?_ He ground his teeth. The bar was only a few steps away and he headed for it as if he needed the brass rail to hold him up. "Whiskey; Single malt. Three please," he said with a clack of his cheek and a conspiratorial wink. "And if you take the bottle over, you can pour yourself a tot to come back to."

The steward did not have to be asked twice, arranging a bottle and three glasses on a silver tray to deliver to the table after pouring one on the bar for his later consumption. While Brackenreid blocked the sight with his body, he dumped heroin in the tumbler in a flash, then returned to sit next to "Miss Plummer" and get a fairly unobstructed view of the whole car. The décor was all Pullman green and gold: thick draperies, plush booths, small tables, comfortable chairs, and an upright piano in addition to the bar. Cigar smoke curled by the ceiling. All was as to be expected, except there were three women in this usually male citadel. He spied Mademoiselle De la Roche sitting at the piano, making eyes at the young bartender who was returning the attention. _Remarkable,_ he thought. _Dr. Ogden's guess appears to be on target._

Brackenreid's focus was elsewhere. Close proximity to Margaret's astonishingly forward behavior, and to be honest with himself, her creamy shoulders, slender waist and décolletage _,_ nearly made him come undone. Here was no telling what was going to transpire under the influence of alcohol… he took s slug of his drink.

 _Good Lord, ten minutes is going to be forever._

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

George preceded William into the coach, making his way down the middle of two rows of bench seats full of passengers settling in for the long overnight haul. The train was noisier the closer to the front they got, between the engines and the families with children who did not have funds for a private compartment or sleeping arrangements. He spied the two law men, not distinguished so much by their clothing or general appearance, but by their suspicious eyes roaming over fellow passengers. The two officers were in final pair of rear-facing seats, one on each side of the aisle, bracketing the door. Both men stiffened as George approached; he put on a conspiratorial smile and introduced himself.

"Good evening gentlemen. Would you like some refreshment?" He lowered his box to reveal several pastries, fried dough and three lemonades. "One copper to another," he whispered, "professional courtesy." George plopped down and took up one of the fried doughs, trying not to get any sugar on his uniform. "Constable George Crabtree, Toronto Constabulary."

The smell of the treats was too much for the red haired and ruddy-complexioned man on the left to resist, but he was stopped by his thinner, paler companion. "I don't know what you mean, constable." He frowned at George even as his stomach growled audibly.

"Well, never mind then. My mistake," George apologized. "I am on my way to New York to represent the Ontario Constabulary on the express invitation of Commissioner McAdoo, myself and my detective, William Murdoch. I assumed you were headed that way as well." He tried to look bashful. "I guess this is why I will never rise to the exalted rank of detective, getting my instincts wrong with you two. And I suppose I will have to eat these all myself." George tipped his helmet and rose to walk away. In his head he counted: _One… Two… Three…Four…_

"Oy, Crabtree. You got us dead to rights."

George halted, then turned around with a big smile and tried to look relieved rather than smug. "Oh, thank God. I was going to have to admit to my boss that I got it wrong, and well, that would be quite and an embarrassment, let me tell you..." George shared around his treats while getting acquainted with Mr. Penfield and Mr. Brace, careful not to inquire too closely what police outfit with which they were employed. He made sure they were well fed then began to regale them with a long complicated joke, so that by the time William Murdoch arrived, George had his listeners so focused the detective was able to walk up on them without being noticed.

"Ah. Detective!" George hailed. "Let me introduce my new friends. I believe they are on the way to our police conference as well. Detective William Murdoch, Mr. Richard Brace and Mr. Stephen Penfield." George made introductions.

William shook hands in greeting. "Gentlemen. Thank you Constable."

"This is your boss, William Murdoch?" Mr. Penfield was openly skeptical, but his partner seemed to recognize the detective. A part of the plan was to assume that William's celebrity could be parlayed into something positive, rather than notoriety or jealousy being a roadblock.

"Can I borrow you from your fellow officers? We need to send our telegram on the wireless," William asked George. This was the tricky part. William tried to time his interruption to occur just before the punch line of George's joke—hoping the two men would wish to hear the ending. He was pleased to see their reluctant faces, and jumped in quickly. "I think I can manage, constable. Carry on."

William was through the door and into the cold boxcar before either officer could change his mind. He immediately switched his Ultra violet light on and swept it over the crates, hoping George's amusing tale will suffice. _I have at most five to eight minutes…_

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Julia noticed the inspector's entrance to the salon out of the corner of her eye without missing a beat. Together, she and Margaret decided that hiding like quivering school girls or shrinking violets while the men put themselves on the line was unacceptable; however, it took a while to decide what they could add to the plan and how to implement it:

…" _We must pool our resources," Julia had suggested earlier as she unpacked her medical bag on a fold-down bed provided in the Brackenreid's sleeping compartment, naming things as she laid them out. "I have my standard instruments, some medicines, and in my suitcase I have reference books, modeling clay, a wig, make-up and a few art supplies." She surveyed the pile and laughed a bit. "You would never know it but my husband is a walking tool shed inside his suits; I do not know how he does it when I need an entire leather case." She had looked up, expecting her companion to be unearthing helpful tools. She asked: "What assets do you have?"_

… _Instead, Margaret opened her trunk and grabbed an armful of red silk, presenting a self-satisfied smile. "Books and surgical supplies? Bah! Julia, all the assets you and I need we were born with!" When the doctor narrowed her eyes, she explained. "The men can handle what they are best at with all their male attributes. We have the element of surprise. No one will expect a woman, let alone two women to be part of a counter-espionage force." She held up the bodice. "I think we use our decidedly female assets."_

"… _Our what?" Julia was caught off guard. She was getting to know more about Margaret Brackenreid, having always suspected an earthier side to her to match her husband's; this side of her personality was certainly a pleasant surprise._

…" _You told me we should use your psychological insights. Well…don't let on, but I have been managing my husband for nearly twenty years and I know a thing or two about men as well. You and I need to create two characters who will intrigue those thieves, or spies or whatever they are. I have an idea how to work on Mr. Owen," she said primly, then flushed and smiled. "Thomas will not like it. Can you come up with something compelling for the German or the Russian gentleman..?"_

…Now that Julia was dressed in her best gown and entertaining a table of patrons, she was feeling quite excited. One man offered her a drink, champagne, which she accepted, giving her an opening to offer a palm reading in exchange. Just as she knew it would be, once that gentleman was pleased, she was persuaded to entertain his traveling companion, another businessman from Ottawa. Eventually she collected an audience, drawing Herr Klein and Mr. Korsky over to her circle.

"Madame Ruby, you astonish me!" Herr Kleinhart whispered under his breath in barely accented English. With his blonde hair, blue eyes and flushed cheeks the man could have easily passed for the inspector's cousin. "You have impressed these other gentlemen. You must tell me how you do this!" His eyes were full of mischief. "Are you going to tell me you see the spirits or read the tarot as well?"

Julia had thought of that ahead of time. "Of course not." She smiled calmly. "I am merely observing and interpreting what is in front of my eyes and in front of yours. There is nothing supernatural about it at all—and certainly no fraud. You are free to be enlightened, entertained or decline as you wish." She deliberately turned away from him and engaged an older gentleman who possessed an old-fashioned sweeping white mustache and chops. Julia was biding her time, waiting for Herr Kleinhart to ask for a reading, counting on that spurring Mr. Korsky to do so. She wanted to save that for later on, if she could, for when William needed these men to be maximally distracted. In the mean time she was going to go around the table, one by one charming the older men, making small talk. _Servicing their male egos_ , she thought, able to converse on some topic or other in a way that was interesting. _Thank God William does not require this much effort,_ she thought. _It is plain exhausting._

Julia saw that the Mademoiselle ignored all the men there save for the young steward tending bar. That was not a woman who bonded with other women, Julia suspected. _Therefore Mlle. De la Roche will not wish to chat and will not readily believe Margaret and I are working together…a weakness to exploit._

The German watched intently as Julia gave another reading, sending the table into laughter and a little bit of awe at her powers. He leaned over again. "I think you are manipulating by only reading the external, the obvious, Madame, not interpreting anything on a palm."

"Any man can change his tailor or barber. It does not change the man, does it?" Julia said, lightly sparing with him.

"And _that_ sounds like a challenge, Madame." Kleinhart turned in his seat, pointing to the table at which Margaret and her husband were trying to occupy Malthus Owen. He pointed to the inspector. "That that gentleman there. I can tell you about him just by looking at him."

Julia let her eyes give him permission to try.

"He is middle class, a businessman perhaps, comfortably well off but not wealthy; his suit is well cut, but not bespoke and not completely up to date. His hat and cravat are excellent; however they do not match the rest of his suit, so he has some money—and pretentions. By his accent I'd say he was from Yorkshire, no breeding, no university, and by his age and bearing I'd say he served in the military. By his waistline I'd say he was married and the ruddiness in his face says he drinks too much." Kleinhart looked triumphant.

"Indeed." Julia was impressed, carefully giving only a measured acknowledgement. _That was an excellent and intuitive assessment of Inspector Brackenreid. I must be wary of how he assesses me._ "That sounds more like Sherlock Holmes, Herr Kleinhart." Julia was satisfied he was interested, just needing to push him off a little bit. "You are observant of what a man shows the world, consciously or unconsciously. A man's left hand, his naked hand, is what one is fated for; his right hand shows how one fights against that fate, what one shapes for himself in this world." She made sure she looked back with modesty, eyes down. Beside her, Herr Kleinhart was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

Julia's heart thrilled. _Got him!_

At Margaret's table, Thomas rejoined her and deliberately downed his Scotch in one gulp. _Just to make a point,_ she guessed. _Well, two can play at that._ She saluted and sipped, using every ounce of power not to choke on the burning liquid or allow her eyes to water. Patting her lips genteelly with her napkin, she complimented his choice. "Although I prefer champagne, of course."

Malthus Owen smirked. "What shall we play, Mr. Phelps? I suggest Hazzard since we have dice, or whist? We are on a Pullman after all and the porters will have a deck of cards somewhere."

Margaret's husband leaned forward, pouring another round of drinks. "Lady's choice, perhaps."

She felt a charge of energy spark between them. "I think bid whist, gentlemen, at least to start with." Margaret fluttered her eyelashes. "But nothing too rich…."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Cargo was stacked with only a tiny aisle from end to end, swaying a bit with every bump of the rails. William's hand light played over the blocky shapes of boxes and packing crates, a silent countdown ticking in his head. _This was going to be harder than I thought,_ overestimating how easy identifying markings was going to be in the pitch dark. He scrutinized a rectangle which was the right shape for George's crate when a squawk to his left nearly made him lose the light. _Chickens!_ Of course, livestock was going to be shoved into available space. Any minute he was afraid a goat was going to chew his trousers if the smell was any indication. Breathing out to get his racing heart to cooperate, William prowled the car, trying not to get his suit ripped on a protruding nail.

While he did not immediately see the constabulary's crates, there was one of the proper size placed exactly where he expected it to be: directly in front of the door. William got his measuring tape out to run along the edges, then looked carefully for any markings. _Not quite, nothing obvious._ He did not see any of his own equipment: therefore this was not _the_ baggage car. Briefly he wondered if the reconfiguration of the train was arranged by the "D-7" spymasters, the thief or even one of the bidders who was bent on cheating—Herr Kleinhart came to mind. This made the task much, much harder. Wasting no more time, he proceeded to the next freight car and repeated the process.

 _Nothing._ Only parcels, crates and boxes, including whitefish packed in ice for the New York market. William brushed his suit off, then squeezed himself through to get to the Railway Post Office car, announcing himself with a request to make an urgent wireless transmission.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Mlle. De la Roche was tinkling on the piano, half-singing some French ditty in a small voice. Henry entered the lounge, nose high and a supercilious grin on his face as if he owned the place…which froze upon seeing Dr. Ogden and Mrs. Brackenreid. Bewildered and covering quickly with a cough, he went straight to the bar to check on progress of the drug's effects on the bartender, sweat forming between his shoulder blades. He made small talk for a moment, wishing George was here to help with this. The drug was causing the man's eyes to glaze over, so thinking fast, Henry guided him deftly into a small galley area on the pretext of wanting ice, just in time for the steward to sink to the floor. Henry bound his hands and feet then poured a healthy dose of laudanum from Dr. Ogden down him for good measure before stuffing a rag into his mouth.

Henry rustled around and came up with a full bucket of ice, then boldly emerged, closing the folding door behind him. Fortunately no one seemed to notice…no one except Mademoiselle De la Roche, who turned back from the piano to scowl at the bar, obviously looking for the bartender. He smiled nervously, clutching the ice. _Oh, God. She saw what happened. What do I do?_ Henry was really starting to sweat now. He turned his back on the Moroccan agent, mind running wildly. _There!_ His eyes rested on a bottle of champagne. He shoved it in his bucket, grabbed two glasses and went directly over to the piano. "Avec mes compliments, Mademioselle," he offered, opening the bottle and pouring. "Jacob Edward James, à votre service."

The lady's frown changed ever so slowly as she looked Henry up and down. She sighed and smiled, grasping one of the glasses to accept a pour. "Merci. Je suis Honore De La Roche. _Enchanté_ Monsieur James." She saluted then sipped, continuing in French. "I am glad to see a Colonial man of good taste. From _La Belle Provence_ I expect? And are you traveling on this dreary train to New York on business?"

Henry was speechless. He was supposed to pretend to be a replacement for the bartender and had bollocksed it up already; he could just _hear_ Brackenreid growling. _The inspector is going to kill me_ , he yammered at himself. He poured more wine, trying to decide what story to tell. "Of course. I am…." _What to say?_ He blurted out the first thing that came into his mind.

"….A partner in James, James, Jarvis and James. My firm has a contract I am seeing to in the morning." He gestured to the piano. "But that is hours away." _Well, in for a penny in for a pound_. "I hired out the bar and thought I might have some entertainment before the car closes." Henry saw Mlle. De la Roche's olive green eyes brighten, obviously glittering back at himself: the young, attractive fool who provided champagne and might be a small divertissement for her boredom.

Mlle. De la Roche changed to English. "Do you play?" She asked in a low voice, tapping the ivory keys. "Nothing old fashioned or stuffy I hope. Something au courant, something young from the new world. It would positively delight me if you knew any of the New York Broadway tunes from this year or last? _The Medal and the Maid_ perhaps?"

Henry just could not help himself. He nodded, hypnotized by the woman's gaze and took a swallow of champagne to wet his lips, feeling a frisson of excitement. "Actually, I do….How about "Give My Regards to Broadway" from _Little Johnny Jones?"_

Henry slid over on the piano bench, his thigh coming to rest against the lady's, who snuggled closer. He acquainted himself with the pedals, placed his fingers on the keys and began in a pleasant baritone:

" _ **Did you ever see two Yankees part upon a foreign shore, when the good ship's about to part for Old New York once more…?"**_

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

George had tears in the corners of his eyes from laughing, or rather trying to suppress his giggles since he and the two Dominion Officers had been shushed several times by other passengers. His belly hurt as well—probably a combination of grease and sugar while holding back laughter.

"...And don't you know it, then Her Majesty Queen Victoria winds up in a bank vault." He paused for breath.

"In a _**bank**_ vault?" Mr. Penfold, an otherwise bland and sober-appearing gentleman, actually tittered.

"Well, she was so valuable," George paused dramatically, "where _else_ would she be?"

Mr. Brace slapped him on the back so hard George nearly left the seat. "Good one! Constable Crabtree, I will definitely read that book when you send me a copy." He looked up, still laughing, as William emerged from the gangway door. "Detective, your man here must keep you in stitches every day."

William saw the officers were completely disarmed by Crabtree's humour. He tried to smile proudly.

"A darn sight better than your lame jokes, Brace." Penfold observed with a smirk. "Did you send your wireless, Detective Murdoch?"

"Yes, thank you, I have."

Mr. Brace invited William to sit. "Stay with us, detective, and pass the time until New York. It will make the miles go more quickly, especially with your constable's amusing stories-particularly the ones about you."

William kept the horror off his face with effort. _George's distraction was working a little too well._ William declined as politely as he could, explaining they had to prepare for the conference. "Constable? This time I do require your assistance." He took out his watch to signal George they had to move on to the end of the train. George extricated himself with promises to have a drink with the men once in New York and followed the detective back down the aisle, brushing crumbs off his uniform as he went.

Once in the gangway between cars, William whispered urgently. "George, there should be two refueling stops between where we are now and our destination. Please locate a train attendant and ask exactly what time they will be and how long the stop-overs are projected to last, then meet me in our compartment. I think we must assume the baggage car before the caboose is the one which was packed in Toronto, therefore containing Mr. Fessenden's device."

"Yes sir. This is becoming quite the adventure, don't you think?" George remained pleased with his part in the deception. "No one would suspect that we are part of some plot. Genius really for you to have _both_ of us just play ourselves, so to speak."

William did not answer, merely gave a tight smile. "Off you go, George. I will wait for you." He saw George enthusiastically bound on ahead in search of a porter or steward as he himself walked slowly back towards the rear of the train, trying to soothe his disquiet. Whilst he was searching the baggage car, it belatedly occurred to William that by revealing themselves that way, it also meant that if they were wrong about all of this or miscalculated in some way, he and George were going to be that much more easily identifiable as traitors to the Crown...

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"… _**in my merry Oldsmobile, down the road of life we fly, automo-bubbling, you and I…"**_

Brackenreid grimaced under the auditory onslaught. _Where the Hell have Murdoch and Crabtree gotten to?_

The inspector accepted the deck and shuffled, darting his eyes around the room. _You could have pushed me over with a feather to see,_ and hear _, normally awkward Constable Henry Higgins metamorphosize into a crooning balladeer_. _Higgins!_ Entertaining the entire lounge with, in Brackenreid's opinion, gawd-awful music-hall tunes, the noise having driven a few of the older businessmen out of the car and into their beds.

"… _ **To the church we'll swiftly steal, then our wedding bells will peal…"**_

 _It is giving me a headache_.

A couple younger men were gathered 'round the piano, singing along. Mr. Owens, on the other hand, focused on his cards, ignoring the music, never once consulting his watch or seeming to check on the supposed bidders for the device he was auctioning off, treating them all as unremarkable strangers. Brackenreid was suddenly unsure how this 'Zanzibar' auction was supposed to take place, or if the bidders even knew the device was on the train in the first place. What if the entire thing was a confidence game, and Owens was pulling a massive con job?

He figured Dr. Ogden was keeping the German and the Russian distracted. Margaret, of course, was enthralled with the music, tapping her foot gleefully while nattering on about 'Miss Plummer's' business in arranging social events, selling a story about how she was on her way to New York to try her hand in the big city, after working in Niagara Falls and Toronto.

Brackenreid also noticed Mlle. De la Roche's interest in Higgins' musical stylings was waning. _Doesn't like to not be the center of attention, does she?_ However, the woman _was_ undertaking a more personal interest in the younger constable: leaning in, running her hands along his collar, fussing with his hair. Brackenreid hid a sigh underneath his smile as Owens cut the cards, then he began to deal. _No matter, a job's a job and since I got us all into this I'd better see it to the end._

So where was Murdoch? _Making a list is he?_ Brackenreid grumbled to himself. _For God's sake, does he have to take his own sweet time with_ _everything_ _?_

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

At the other end of the lounge, one gentleman excused himself and rapidly exited the car. A barking laugh erupted from Herr Kleinhart, who threw his head back to bray at the man's retreating back. "Ach! Madame Ruby, it seems you are truly gifted. Here, I surrender, tell me about myself, I am eager to know what I do not know." He unfolded a square palm possessing short fingers, tipped with longish fingernails which were clean, trimmed and buffed.

Julia had been expecting this to happen a little later; while Herr Kleinhart sounded like he was capitulating, she still fancied a challenge from him. The Russian on the other hand, had been silently watching, his dour expression hardly changing at all.

"Are you certain, Herr Kleinhart?" she asked, as if she was seeking permission. "Mr. Masten, as you can see, was displeased."

"That is exactly why I am convinced! Please Madame." He leaned over and slid his right hand across the table for her to take, fastening his eyes on hers.

Julia might be reading the German's palm but she was most interested in the grey-eyed, imperial-mustachioed Mr. Korsky, who was consuming copious amounts of alcohol without any obvious effects. Julia acquiesced, cradling Herr Kleinhart's hand in hers, then began by finishing her examination of him. _He'd been right, after all: I do evaluate the externals. Hairstyle, cut and quality of the suit, condition of the skin and eyes and teeth, tell-tale markers of life and occupation -or dissipation and ill health_. Between her years in the morgue and as a psychiatrist she knew in intimate detail how life affected the body.

Herr Kleinhart seemed to be a healthy male in his thirties. There were fine scars on his face and hands and his body radiated energy—and _danger_ her imagination told her. She exhaled to settle her nerves and began in a conversational tone. "As I have mentioned, your right hand will tell you something about what you have made out of your life, the results of your choices." She turned the hand over and back, attending to each finger before her first pronouncement. "The overall character of your hand is strong, indicating someone who is bold." That was hardly a blind guess, as he'd been openly staring at her bosom, and when caught at it, merely smiled wider. "It says you trust your own instincts. It says you have used your hands to personally achieve goals for yourself or others." She ran a finger across the palm, trying to find a flattering way to frame her interpretations. _How to tell him he is fickle and hates to lose?_

She coughed slightly. "We will start with your heart line. See how it meanders a bit? And that mark there? Many women are drawn to you. None lasted long by your side. Your heart is not easily broken but one woman made a lasting impression…."

Head down and concentrating on the story she was telling, Julia heard Henry wind up yet another tune on the piano. She could not help being amused by Henry-as-young-lover receiving the attentions of the older, more-worldlyMoroccan agent. Henry was blissfully lapping it up, but she did not know if he could sustain it. In her professional opinion, there was still a large portion of the Mademoiselle's attention which was rather sharply focused on Messrs. Korsky, Kleinhart and Owen. At the next table, she overheard Margaret's triumphant laugh and her two companions' groans: _Which probably means Margaret's luck at cards was good_. Julia flicked an eye towards the inspector- his face was too flushed. _Nothing I can do about that from here._

She returned her attention to Herr Kleinhart's hand resting in her own. _Thank God for the book on palmistry Miss James gave me._ Julia reflected on the case where the two of them identified the victim, by investigating occupational markers on the corpse _…_

Julia tried to think of Herr Kleinhart as a body on her slab. "Your headline, by contrast, is straight, deep, separated from your lifeline. You possess a contrary nature, something you have embraced." She pointed. "This would indicate you are an adventurer..."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 **More to come...**

 **So, Dear Reader, how will they make the switch and not get caught? Any speculations? Any suggestions?**

 **Reviews welcome...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Sir, it is getting late," George whispered as he and William ducked into their compartment to hone their conspiracy. "Since the lounge theoretically closes at twelve midnight, why not just wait until everyone clears out to make your switch? Unless those four plan to commandeer the salon and stay up until morning,"

"Occupying the car until then is exactly what they are planning to do. I believe they will be staying there until this train arrives at Grand Central Station." William answered.

"The engine refuels and gets water in Syracuse just before the bar closes. The porter told me it only lays over for sixteen minutes total," George marveled. "Imagine, only sixteen minutes!"

William was disappointed the stop was so short, albeit not surprised at the efficiency of the train schedule. "That should be barely enough time for me to get off the train and into the baggage car, find and open the crate, sketch the device, then get back on board to figure out how to make a substitute."

"The next refueling in Albany is slightly longer because that city is the state's capital and there is more to exchange." George nodded thoughtfully. "Will you have enough time to use that stop to board the car again, secure the secret device and place the fake one in the original crate?"

William did not answer, busy visualizing how he was going to accomplish that. "I may not need to limit myself to the stop. If I need more time, I can ride the car to New York City and hopefully get off before I am noticed." This was the most likely scenario as he thought about the problem George pointed out. "The real difficulty is how am I going to get the necessary materials and supplies? I suppose I must be willing to cannibalize from the train itself, but then I have to get all of it into the baggage car without being observed."

George was silent, thinking it through. "Sir, if you wish to be unseen, perhaps there is a way. A way to get, um…material out of the car without going out through the exits."

William was a little annoyed at his companion's coyness. "And that is?"

"The toilets, sir! Essentially all they are is a hole in the floor of the train. You could drop things through." He brightened excitedly. "Or even yourself sir?" George saw the expression on the detective's face and quickly reached out both arms. "Well, sir, perhaps your well-built shoulders are too big," he gestured as if he were measuring. "And of course my waistline precludes me undertaking it myself, although in my youth of course, as a chimney sweep I could shimmy…."

"George! Helpful suggestions, please," William hissed.

"I suggest Henry, who is very slender you understand. If he puts his hand up above his head he might be able to fit down…."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Miss Plummer, you win again! Although I know better, my pride wishes I could say you are cheating." Malthus Owen said this ruefully as he counted his points. "I seldom get the opportunity to play cards with the fairer sex; it seems you are schooling me in the fine art of feminine mesmerism. What else shall I learn?"

He smiled broadly at Margaret who merely simpered in return. "Mr. Owens, thank you for vouchsafing my honesty. However, if I told you my secret then I'd lose the perceived advantage." She accepted the cards to shuffle and deal.

Owens leaned in. "Ah…so there is a secret skill."

Beside her, her husband snorted. "Luck is not a skill, Owens. _She_ is the lady we are _each_ playing against, and lady luck is favouring Miss Plummer tonight." Thomas observed mildly after taking a sip of his scotch.

" _Luck_ , Mr. Phelps?" she fluttered her lashes as the cards were cut, compelled to tweak her husband. _Serves him right for thinking he was going to leave me behind again to worry, thinking I was of no use. He'd be lost without me._ "I think not. Whist is a game of concentration and calculation." For her part, Margaret was having the time of her life. She found it absolutely thrilling to adopt a disguise: no longer a homemaker, wife or mother, but a vibrant, daring and independent person. She felt glorious! Twenty years younger and ready to take on the world.

"I notice you win the game as often as not, even when you do not win the bid for the kitty," Owens persisted.

Margaret placed each card in precise piles and smiled as enigmatically as she could, remembering how she and Thomas first met. "Indeed, gentlemen." She was not going to breathe a word of her strategy. If those two men could not see she was getting them to bid up and compete against each other—effectively neutralizing one another—then she was not about to let on.

Brackenreid let go of a belly laugh. He was enjoying the adventure despite himself. In the moment, it was easy to forget that an aristocratic, treasonous tosspot sat at his elbow, a concubine was in the corner seducing Higgins, and two foreign agents, one of whom was a purported assassin were holding hands with Murdoch's wife. _I shudder to imagine how Murdoch would react if he knew. Good thing he is otherwise occupied_. Margaret, at his other elbow and full of surprises, was making his own head spin. Her colour was high and to him there was a certain come-hither sparkle in her eyes, or at least he thought there was: too bad it seemed to focus equally on that bastard, Owens.

Throughout the evening the compartment door had slid open and closed as other gentlemen came in for a smoke or left for their beds. It was hard to hear over the piano din, but this time a rattling noise entered. Brackenreid looked up to see Crabtree pushing a cart. He had white gloves on and a linen towel folded over his arm as if he were a steward. After placing the cart by the bar, he approached their table and coughed politely. "Excuse me, sir. The conductor has a telegram for you." Crabtree handed him an envelope then proceeded to clear off used glassware and empty ashtrays as if he was readying the car for closing. Brackenreid opened his note as Crabtree moved off to another table. The contents mimicked a genuine telegraph. _Not bad,_ he thought of the paper; _Not good_ , of the contents.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Henry stopped singing long enough to wet his whistle and cool down a bit with a half glass of champagne. The warmth he was feeling was not entirely due to his performance. Honore's attentions were driving him to distraction, making it harder and harder to resist her. In his fantasy, she was waiting for the moment she would take him to a dim corner and have her way with him. He imagined that as the favourite of an exotic sultan she was skilled in multiple methods of pleasuring a man, the thoughts of which brought a silly smile to his face; and more heat _elsewhere._ He tried to keep his sweetheart Ruth's face front and center, but it was a losing battle. So lost in his daydream, he was not aware of any new arrivals until she nudged him and inclined her head towards the bar, murmuring that she wanted more champagne. He swiveled around on the piano bench to view George, who was over there straightening up. Grin in place, Henry took their empty wine bottles up to exchange for a new one and more ice.

"More champagne, my good man, for my lady and me." Henry said jovially, gesturing grandly around the room.

George had seen how forward Mlle. De la Roach was, and how much Henry was relishing his role. His friend's face was flushed and his eyes were shiny— _scary shiny_ in George's worried opinion, and the giggle was outright disturbing. _I hope he is not overly intoxicated._ "Don't bury yourself in the part," he cautioned under his breath.

"What?" Henry responded, caught off guard.

"I said opening champagne is an art," George's repeated loudly, his Newfoundland "a" in the word 'art' quite obvious. "Let me prepare that for you, sir." He gestured for Henry to come closer, barely whispering. "It's in the last baggage car. You need to be ready…"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

William had the wooden crate apart in less than two minutes—careful not to damage the sides or leave tool marks. Added to the six minutes it took him from exiting out a gangway, breaking into the car and finding the crate, he only had seven more left to remove the device and decipher what the machine did before needing to get out of the car and back on the train. His first impression was that it was a tangle of disparate parts, a Braun tube perhaps, with Zennneck's modification for an oscillograph. It was set up as a measuring instrument of some kind in a wooden box, powered by electricity. Brushing off all the wood wool, he appreciated a Nipkow rasterizing disc, a series of Edison bulbs, a nest of wires, knobs, what appeared to be copper cooling tubes and a kite-like receiver. In his mind's eye, he was trying to see what is was going to be used for. _This really is marvelous…_ When the time on his watch finally caught his attention.

He shut his eyes. _No, I don't need to know that now, I just need to know what it looks like and how the components fit together._ William took measurements and made a sketch of the machine's parts from all sides, barely stashing the original device in one of his own crates and getting out of the car in time as it slowly started to move. He trotted along the side of the train, stumbling on a rail tie. That was all it took for him to lose momentum. The train was pulling away and going to leave him behind!

 _Stupid, stupid! I never should have taken that long, never should have cut it so close!_

Feeling desperate, he grabbed onto the outside of the gangway and hoisted himself up, shoulder muscles bunching and straining the seams in his jacket. In the night, his black suit and dark hair provided some camouflage so that he was not immediately spotted from the caboose. Being on the train was good. Being stuck on the outside was not. The metal under his feet was slick and the rail underneath his fingers was cold. His suit did not provide much protection from the elements as he weighed his options.

He could hear music still coming from inside the lounge. Listening a moment, for the life of him he could have sworn it was Henry Higgins singing. He shook his head at such absurdity. _Never mind._ As long as the car was occupied he could not go back in that way. He was not looking forward to clinging to the side of a moving train for the next one-hundred and fifty miles either.

William craned his neck down the side of the train. He could see nothing in the darkness—no indication of the landscape. No knowledge of an upcoming bridge, tunnel or obstruction. _How on earth will I get beyond the lounge car and inside?_ A jog in the tracks and a gust of wind slammed his back against the car with a whomp. Clearly, remaining out here was not an option. He wrapped his right hand on a piece of metal railing and reached out with his left foot for a toe hold. His shoes refused to grip, sending him dangling and his heart racing. _Ouch!_ The jolt to his shoulders knifed sharply.

After several attempts, he gave up trying to get to the end of the car: The only way was up.

He inspected his perch on the side of the train for inspiration. If he could get to the roof of the car, he could (theoretically) make his way forward and reenter the train. William eyed the angles. Trying to jump was unwise. Instead he made the sign of the cross and muttered a heart-felt prayer, placed a foot on a protrusion to boost himself up, then pulled with his upper body to drag himself up and over the edge of the car roof where the wind buffeted him even more. He had no idea if anyone inside the car noticed a bang coming from above.

He sincerely, desperately, hoped not.

Apparently right below him inside the car was the piano—he could almost feel the vibrations considering his ear was plastered against the roof. Whoever was playing, it sounded as if the whole car was engaged in a raucous sing-along. William tried to stand up, getting on all fours then rising on shaky arms and legs. The wind tried to make a sail out of his body, forcing him back down, instinctively keeping low. He was definitely alarmed, wondering if his luck was going to run out. The consequences of failing loomed darker than the night. Treason. Needing to destroy the device-train car and all, inevitably causing needless deaths.

 _Courage, William_. He sent another prayer this time to God and St. Christopher, gesturing another blessing, because luck was going to have nothing to do with this.

Below him, the piano rhythm pounded—something about taking a trip on an airship, accompanied by the incessant **Clack, Clack, Click-clack…Clack, Clack, Click-clack** , of the rails.

Trying to keep the beat, he stayed low and made one footfall after the other in what he hoped was rhythm to the faint tune. This was going to be the longest fifty feet of his life.

 _God help me, it better work._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Julia excused herself for a moment, begging a bit of rest from her labours and to powder her nose (since her corset was tight and champagne had that effect on her.) She had played out Herr Kleinhart's reading as long as she could and actually enjoyed a portion of it, excited to match wits with the German. _This must be a little of what it is like for William to go after a suspect,_ she guessed _._ The man admitted she drew an uncannily accurate portrait of himself—of course it helped to know a bit about him from the files George and Henry shared. Each guess she made, each "yes" he gave, brought him inexorably into her snare. She possessed only the tiniest flicker of guilt at her behaviour: _My old professor would turn in his proverbial grave to learn what purpose I put his teaching me hypnosis!_

When she offered to read his future he readily agreed and she noticed Mr. Korsky hung on every word, even forgetting his drink. _He will ask for a reading when I get back_ , she predicted, unless Mr. Owens or the Brackienreids get tired of their game and come over.

As unobtrusively as possible she scrutinized her fellow passengers. Except for a man quietly sleeping in an overstuffed chair (probably intoxicated, considering the volume of the music) all the other patrons quit the lounge at closing, save thief and his bidders. She giggled to herself. Not having William around made it easier for her to be 'familiar' with the men on the train. She believed him when he said he was not jealous or possessive, since it implied a lack of trust in her. She also knew he would _never_ enjoy watching her be flirtatious with other men.

She sighed. It killed her not to know where Mr. Fesseden's device was located or what the exact plan was for exchanging it. It _did_ please her to know that she and Margaret effectively held court for the men. Her opinion on Henry's performance she was going to keep to herself although she was half temped to intervene. _Perhaps I should ask if he wants his palm read, if only to rescue him for a moment from Mlle. De la Roche's clutches._ Julia thought it was actually funny to see Henry navigating the woman's attentions, wondering what else she did not know about Henry Higgins after all these years. She found it all rather titillating.

And _Margaret!_ What a revelation! She had never seen the inspector's wife like this before—vivacious and sensual. Julia chastised herself for having lacked imagination—Being a wife and mother, enjoying her social position, did not preclude Margaret from having depth. She liked the woman more than ever before, and was sure she could bring her around to more liberal social views with time…

Julia found the train's toilet and fixed her hair in the small mirror. If she did not think it important to get back right away, she might have searched out her husband to let him know she had two more phials of heroin in her pocket, just in case…

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

George nearly jumped out of his skin, gulping in huge breaths to complain. "What took you so long?" The detective caught him off guard, entering the compartment more than half an hour later than expected. "And why sneak up on me like that?" The compartment was crowded by a wheeled cart and the snoring figure of the bartender, bound hand and foot. George stepped aside to make room for William, shutting the door and locking it behind.

"I was, er…unavoidably delayed." William averted his eyes from the constable's inquiry to get down to business. "Thank you for securing the cart and our friend here. I can use that to deliver some of our supplies. What else have you?"

George narrowed his eyes, looking the detective up and down. Something was off, or why else the delay? _Suit: immaculate. Check. Shirt front, collar and cuffs: white. Check. Hair: perfect. Check._ The only thing out of place was a scrape on the detective's left shoe. He shrugged. "I have good news and bad news. The good news is that just as you suspected, the thief and his buyers are camped out in the lounge car. The inspector is keeping an eye on them."

"Has Henry closed the bar?"

"Ah…well…sir, it's like this. Henry is rather occupied. I don't think he will be able to help in the way you hoped." He rushed on. "He is entertaining in the lounge. His family owned a piano store, did you know?"

"So that _was_ Henry?" William's eyebrows shot up.

George continued. "Yes, it is. But that is neither here nor there. Do you have an idea what sort of false device to create?"

Temporarily distracted, William showed off his sketch. "It seems to be some sort of distance monitor, where you can actually visualize an object, using a rasterizer."

"Rasterizer? What is a 'raster'?" George chuckled. "That sounds awfully silly. Like something to catch rodents. That can hardly be the actual name."

William just blinked, unwilling to name any of George's creative phrases for labeling things. "Never the less that is what it is called. I will make a list of supplies."

"You can give me half the "shopping" list," George offered. "We can meet back here to prepare before Albany."

William agreed, jotting items down on two pieces of paper and handing one to George. "We need all of these items in place before the train stops in Albany." After considering what they were planning to do, William believed he needed to level with George about the danger. "Make sure you, Henry and the inspector get out of that lounge car well ahead of the train getting to New York City. Fetch Mrs. Brackenreid and Julia from their sleeping compartment and get everyone as far forward on this train as you can. In fact, it might be best if they are in the company of our Dominion Officers Mr. Brace and Mr. Penfold. No matter what."

"Of…of course sir," George frowned nervously. "You sound so serious."

"Remember the original instructions: if we are unable to make the switch we are to destroy the device and the baggage car with it if necessary. I want all of us to be as far away as possible from the incendiary explosion I will set. We have to do it in the countryside to protect innocent victims, at least an hour outside of the city I would imagine." William looked up, recalling what George had said—and _not_ said. "What is the bad news?" he asked, thinking George looked ill.

"Sir?" George halted at the door.

"What is the bad news you said you had to tell me?" William got a twisted feeling in his gut from looking at George's face.

"Well, sir, they did it on their own it seems and quite honestly are doing a fabulous job of it…"

William spoke each word distinctly. "Who is 'they'?"

"Your wife and the inspector's are in the lounge car. They are entertaining the gentlemen. Mrs. Brackenreid is playing cards and Dr. Ogden is reading palms of all things. Never knew she could do that sir! As far as I can tell, the two ladies have been at it for the past few hours."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Margaret met Julia to exchange a private word just as she was coming back into the lounge, on the pretense of two women who were merely negotiating a small passageway in large skirts. "Good evening, Madame. Please excuse me," Margaret offered. She had been trying to find a way to connect with Julia and took herself up on this impulse. Thomas had let nothing on, but she knew her husband intimately and thought she had an important clue to pass on.

"Of course. Miss Plummer, is it?" Julia asked. "Are you having a pleasant evening?"

"Yes, indeed I am. If I may be so forward, I am interested in your art, or is it science? Or entertainment? One cannot help but overhear." Margaret said aloud.

"You are too kind," Julia answered, then dropped her voice to a whisper. "What news?"

Margaret shook her head. "Thomas received a telegram and I could swear he looked toward the end of the train. We keep going, trust Thomas."

"One car down on the right," Julia answered as if directions to the toilet were solicited, one discreet gentlewoman to another.

"Much obliged," Margaret thanked her. "I may request a reading of my own, it seems quite exotic."

"With pleasure." Julia brushed by to return to her table, the whole exchange taking less than thirty-seconds. Julia instantly interpreted Margaret's insight about the device possibly resting in the adjacent baggage car as a problem: Separating the thief and bidders from the invention by as many train cars as possible only worked if it was in a crate behind the engine, not packed right before the caboose. She and Margaret (to be fair, even Constable Higgins) had performed admirably in keeping these four occupied and in the lounge, but now that was a liability.

She thought furiously, wishing she had a watch to know the time; she had a fair idea of the train's stop, having taken this same trip to New York on her honeymoon. _How is William going to pull this one off, in the time that is left, right under these peoples' noses?_

In four strides, Julia smoothed any distress off her face before Mr. Korsky caught her eye.

"Madame." Mr. Korsky rose to politely offer a chair. "May I?" He gestured next to her, sitting down with her permission. "I have listened to your readings," he announced in a heavily-accented, gravelly voice. "I would find it, how do you say, revealing if you were to do me the honour." His grey eyes and stiff manner cracked ever so slightly as he extended his hand. Just as Julia predicted.

She pushed her worries down. _I have spent quite some time on luring this Russian agent, and now I have him. She made herself smile._ "Indeed. The honour is mine I am sure…."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

William was beside himself. "We have to get them out of there, NOW!" William had no time to be angry with Julia, or with himself for not anticipating Julia would get herself involved; after all, he knew the character of the woman he married. At the moment, he was too appalled by the number of variables that could go wrong. He got up and paced agitatedly in the tiny space available. "You should have told me this immediately!"

"Sir…what's done is done. After all, the inspector is there looking out for them," George said reasonably even though he felt guilty. "I passed him your note so he knows the device is in the baggage car next to the lounge. I have established myself as the steward and will be back to finish my duties and restock the bar in Albany. I can get the items you need into the galley so you can access them from the end of the car, then I will announce I am retiring to the caboose and the conductor's office to explain my leaving. Your plan is perfect."

"That is no longer good enough." William's mouth was dry. "We have to get all of them out of there, even the thief and buyers if there is no other way."

"With all due respect: you and I need to search out the raw materials from this train which you need to cobble together the dummy device and get it re-crated. Albany is coming up soon." George reminded him.

William hated the logic. He rubbed his forehead, hoping to come up with an objection, but of course, there was none possible. His fear for Julia remained intense, yet reluctantly he agreed. "Here is a duplicate set of tools. Bring everything back here in….forty-five minutes."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 **Dear Reader: Having fun? Reviews welcome.**

 **More to come…. Some fun with William's comfort level and George to the rescue.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Across the table, Mr. Owens stared at the back of Margaret's cards so hard, Brackenreid thought he'd see right through them. "Ten," Owens bid.

Margaret declined. "Pass."

"Pass. Too rich for me." Brackenreid was beginning to feel wary. Higgins was flagging from having his glass continuously topped off by Mlle. De La Roche, leaving her attentions to wander. Owens and Herr Kleinhart had not had much to drink while Mr. Korsky consumed a prodigious amount of alcohol with no obvious effects. The policeman in him was suspicious of the supposedly drunken man occupying a corner of the lounge, remembering that Murdoch believed there was another operative on board… _Either the person who gave us that bloody envelope or whomever pitched the delivery man off the train. Could that drunken sod be him, observing or lying in wait?—And if so, on whose side?_

"Miss Plummer, did I overhear you say you wished to have your palm read?" He raised one eyebrow. "Are you a devotee, or simply looking for an experience?"

"An experience, perhaps. Although, is it not only after enough of them that one can name oneself a believer? How about it gentlemen, when we are done with this game, shall we implore Madame Ruby to read our fortunes?" Margaret directed that to Mr. Owen, aware that he and her husband were both vying for her attention as much as they were competitive with the cards.

"I am close in possession of my near-fortune Miss Plummer," Owens offered in reply. "Whilst at the same time I am open to, shall we say…possibilities?"

"Oh?" Brackenreid's instincts were aroused, especially by Owens' suggestive tone towards his wife.

Owens looked steadily at Brackenreid. "More to the point, I suppose our ultimate fortunes are all the same, are they not? Unless Madame Ruby can offer something contrary…"

Margaret took a breath in. "Ah...yes. Very good. _Death_. You wax philosophical, Mr. Owens." She laughed lightly. "You disappoint me if you are not going to be open to what your palm may reveal."

Brackenreid leaned over. "Well, Miss Plummer, I'd be glad to accompany you to the other table for an insight into your past and your future." He needed to get closer to Dr. Ogden and Henry to alert them to where the secret device was actually being kept. The card game was going to be over—tied three-all, and no more excuse to hold Owens in the lounge, so he had to trust Owens to take the bait and join in. That should keep them occupied through the next train stop. Meanwhile, he hoped to hell Murdoch knew what he was doing…

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Well sir, you did it and in record time!" George praised, after turning the final screw and throwing the switch, lighting up some dials with by virtue of the detective wiring it into the overhead lights of the cabin. The contraption resting on the floor of their travel compartment looked impressive, closely following the detective's sketch of the original. "It is quite remarkable." The remains from which it was created were being fed, piece by piece out of the compartment's window by its maker to cover their tracks.

"No, George. It is a fake, made out of spare parts. I am certain it will not pass muster with anyone who understands these sorts of devices."

"Well, sir, if I may make a Halloween reference, even Dr. Frankenstein's monster, er…worked." George smiled at the thought he was being encouraging.

"I fear we are putting Mr. Owens' life into jeopardy," William grunted while pulling the window shut against the cold and breeze. "He might well be hunted down for dealing in bad faith."

"He is a thief, and by all accounts a traitor. I don't suppose we should be so squeamish."

William made a silent face, consulting his watch for the fourth time. "We need to time everything perfectly, with the device poised right in the gangway before the lounge, the exact moment the train stops in Albany. You will hand me the top half and you take care of what is in the cart, then we meet at the baggage car, assemble and recreate this decoy, then get back on board. Having done this together, I believe you and I will have plenty of time to do all that is required. If not, I will continue in the car to New York, and you must get everyone out of the lounge, just in case." He stood to put his jacket back on. "Where is the steward? Still unconscious, and breathing I hope?"

"He is in the sleeping compartment. I gave him the last of the drug from Dr. Ogden's case—there was only one little bottle left. I think he'll be out for the duration." Henry rearranged his suit jacket and got his gloves and towel. "By my calculation, we have less than five minutes. Shall we?"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Henry's head spun pleasantly. The overstuffed chair, the clickety-clack of the train plus effects of champagne were pulling his eyelids shut, despite Honore's insistent attempts to engage him in conversation. He thought perhaps she was a sorceress, like from some wild story of George's, putting a spell on him that rendered him powerless. His last coherent thought was: _That or I got dosed with some of Dr. Ogden's soporific…_

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Julia made room at her table for three more. It was clear to her, even if to no one else, that Mr. Owens, Herr Kleinhart and Mlle. De la Roche were perfectly comfortable having an audience for their auction process. Mr. Korsky was more on guard, making sustained eye contact only with herself, and only since their "reading." Of all of them, she sensed Mr. Korsky was a true idealist, which made him, in her opinion, the most dangerous. Margaret and her husband had Mr. Owens sorted. Henry, on the other hand, was too intoxicated by now to be of much help. Julia was waiting for a signal from the inspector as to their next move, so until then she continued her charade as "Madame Ruby," deflecting personal inquiries with a simple tale of being invited to perform in both aristocratic and bohemian social circles on two continents, dropping small vignettes of Vienna, Paris and London to flesh out her story. She made a brief overture to Mlle. De La Roche to join the circle, which the Moroccan agent waved off; the other woman appearing restless and bored _sans_ champagne and _sans_ one 'Jacob Edward James, Esquire.'

The Mademoiselle was the one person in the lounge for whom female charms were ineffective.

The train had been passing through a more populated area and was slowing down perceptibly. Julia sighed to herself, noticing that Mlle. De la Roche was getting up to leave, unable to think of a single method to halt her progress. Outwardly, she smiled: "Mr. Phelps" consented to have a divination, so she began.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

William had a clear picture in his head of the order of operations for his plan for the assembly of the fake device. He was feeling somewhat optimistic he and George had plenty of time to accomplish their task, which calmed his anxiety for Julia, Henry, the inspector and Mrs. Brackenreid's safety. Even in the worst-case scenario, he saw no need to set an explosion of any kind to destroy the device.

George timed his arrival perfectly, meeting William precisely as the train rolled into Union Station and stopped with a lurch. The gangway was a little snug, so George decided to back down the stairs while William repositioned the cart, handing George the portion of their decoy that rested on top of the cart.

Behind him, William felt the gangway door push against him, instant alarm registering on his face. George noticed this development, quickly grabbing the instrument and shutting the outside door to duck down out of sight, leaving a bottle of champagne wobbling.

Whirling around with no place of his own to hide, he caught the bottle, then pulled the cart up to block the passageway and flung a cloth over it. William braced to be awkwardly confronted about what he was doing there, just in time to have a petite, dark-haired beauty fit herself against his startled body. He had no room to back up, stuttering, "Uhn…excuse me Madame, I was just…"

Mlle. De la Roche's grimace melted as she looked William up and down critically, as if he were an exotic French cheese whose ripeness required close examination.

"Bon!" she breathed her approval. "You were just here to bring me champagne and perhaps some company? Yes?" She placed a hand on his chest and tapped a red-lacquered finger.

She peered behind him into the adjoining passenger car and then tried to look out the window when she realized the train had fully stopped. William had no choice but to block her from leaving and block her view, especially of George and his burden right outside the door.

Against his will he muttered a weak, "Perhaps." She threw a dazzling smile and latched onto his left arm, pulling him into the lounge as his right hand tugged at the cart, hauling it clattering behind him. He winced at the thought of breaking the delicate parts hidden inside. "I found this cart in the passageway," he tried to say, but it made no difference. Mlle. De la Roche saw the wine and filched the bottle while he moved the cart out of the way toward the galley.

" _Alors,"_ she whispered, giving him a rather naked gaze of appreciation of his face and physique. "I gave up hope for some intriguing company, and now you appear. A sight for sore eyes I believe is the phrase, yes? What brings you to the lounge, Monsieur and with the steward's cart?"

William took in the whole scene in only a second: Julia and the Brackenreid's at a table, together with Owens, Korsky and Kleinhart. Henry in a stupor, and Mlle. De la Roche a loose cannon who was much too curious about the cart and what William was doing in the passageway. He recalled everything in the files about her, with Julia' summation: _thrill seeker._

 _Improvise, William!_ he yelled in his head. He adopted a bold stare of his own in spite of the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. "I am not ready to retire so I was looking for a diversion or a challenge, someone interesting to pass the time with. Have you ever been up in a hot air balloon?"

The Mademoiselle got up on tiptoe to place her face close to his cheek and her lips near his ear. "Ahh… the tension in the balloon which builds and fills itself up tight, straining at the taught ropes, nearly to bursting until it is suddenly released…" She exhaled hot air. "Please tell me all about your skills at flying, Monsieur. My name if Frances Honore De la Roche, but you may call me Honore. And you are…?"

 _Dear Lord! I am in serious trouble here. Mlle. Honore has no interest in actual balloons and my wife is less than ten feet away…_

"I…um. I am William Henry…"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Outside the train car, George worked to talk his heart out of beating so fast— _That was a close one!_

His eyes darted down the side of the train; in the dark it was hard to tell but he could hear men leave the caboose and walk along the stones on the other side of the train, and he could see a shadow from the swinging lamp. Hoisting his burden, he moved as quickly and silently as possible down to the end of the lounge car debating what to do. The cart with the other half of the decoy was now in the lounge _— Why did he do that? It might have been better to leave it in the passageway._ George rubbed his face in frustration. _How will I retrieve it now?_

George dithered for a minute before deciding to go on with the plan. He hid his bundle, dusted off his suit and prepared to board the train.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Inside the lounge, Dr. Ogden's vicious grip on his fingers pushed a small, involuntary hiss out of him, which he covered by manly throat-clearing. Her hand had twitched violently when Murdoch appeared with the Moroccan Mademoiselle attached to her husband like a succubus. _She has surprisingly strong hands,_ Brackenreid thought, her long fingers currently surrounding his palm for his 'reading.' _Must be all those autopsies._ He saw she recovered quickly, easing her grip to finish her story about the lines in his hand. _Good girl,_ he praised in his head. It was all nonsense of course, but he played along, looking for an opportunity to gather his team in a huddle. _The game plan needed a change._

Brackenreid supposed he was as disturbed as Dr. Ogden was that their plan seemed to be going sideways, although for obviously different reasons. He laughed to himself about Murdoch's predicament. _T_ _hat's a threp in't steans!_ He would not want to be on the receiving end of the good doctor's sharp tongue, almost felt sorry for Murdoch. Mostly he was worried, saving any further amusement for later. _W_ _hat the devil is Murdoch playing at?_

By the piano, William was trying to determine how to get out of Honore's grasp. Initially he hoped she was merely disinhibited because of intoxication, but alas, the woman proved to be sharp eyed and equally sharp-minded. And focused—currently on his tie. _What is it with women and the tie?_ Henry was no help, insensible to even a sharp kick to the shins. George was nowhere in sight: it was good he was not caught and bad that he was not in the lounge to retrieve the other half of the decoy. William prayed that George would figure out how to get the contents of the cart removed without anyone knowing, and before William's own modesty was compromised.

"Monsieur Henri, William…you are the only man here worth my time. Surely you are used to the attentions of women, and to take whomever you fancy…"

Julia heard that— _How not to when that woman was announcing her attentions like some infernal train conductor?_

Having completed her reading of 'James Phelps', Julia turned her charms to the next supplicant, Malthus Owens. She fought with herself not to stare at William. She had every reason to understand why Mlle. De la Roche might be rapidly infatuated with her husband. _His chocolate brown eyes, ridiculously long lashes, his lips with that sweet little freckle, his broad shoulders and muscled arms, his sensitive, neat hands, his strong chest, his hips-_ Julia looked around: It seemed to be getting warm in here all of a sudden.

Seeing William with another woman who was throwing herself at him was infuriating, even with the knowledge his behavior was merely a role he was required to play. She struggled to look at it in another way: perhaps his level of discomfort could be turned into amusement—or leverage. Having decided that, she also remembered the old adage about turn about being fair play. Julia took Mr. Owens' hand in hers, and this time she leaned in, displaying two of those "assets" Margaret was certain they should use. "My dear Mr. Owens, I see you have a long hand and fingers, and very deep, straight lines on your palm…"

George wrenched the service hatch open then used that advantage to open the back door to the galley. He made no effort to be quiet, believing that bold, obvious noises were going to be less suspicious. He moved several boxes and bins around and rattled some of the glassware, before pushing the outer accordion door aside. He spied the cart, and walked right to it as if he were surprised to find it. He secured the cart with its precious cargo, then returned to the lounge to change the linens on the empty tables, brush the chairs and sweep the floor, going so far as to wipe fingerprints off the windows and polish some brass. It was ten long minutes to do so, waiting for Detective Murdoch to unwind that woman from his arms. _We are running out of time._

George was desperate. He made a beeline for the table where most were gathered. "Ladies, Gentlemen. The car is closed for the evening, and will reopen in the morning," he announced. Over in the corner, Mlle. De la Roche nearly purred, suggesting she and William might take advantage of that and continue their chat in her compartment.

Owen Malthus decided their fate. "My good man, here is a small remuneration. We will not need your services, and prefer to remain here for the duration. Good night."

The "Good night" was rather pointed. "Very good sir," George answered, disappearing the bribe into his pocket. "Everything is well in hand and set for morning. The train will be moving again in twenty minutes." He could swear the detective's eyes pleaded with him to get him out of there, but there was nothing for it.

With that, George retreated to the galley, closed the door behind him and unloaded the second half of the decoy device, which was rather bulky and awkward, crab-walking it to the door, and resting it on his knees in the small stairwell. He used use his elbow to move the door latch, pressing up until the latch gave—suddenly tumbling George out onto the rail bed with the box containing their decoy device breaking his fall.

He did not need to look: he knew the detective's work was smashed. It was a good thing he was lying prone on the ground, because before he could get up he noticed one of the conductors raked a light on the train car above him, right where his head had been. Without a second thought, George grabbed the box of smashed parts. He stayed low, running to the next car and picked the lock, jammed the box of broken bits in then went back for other half and pushed that in as well, pulling himself up onto the wooden floor in a scramble just as he heard the crunch of a loader approaching. He nearly yelped when the loader cursed about the "broken lock" and set another crate into the boxcar, then relocked the lock—effectively trapping George inside and, more distressingly, locking the detective outside, assuming he could get away and join him.

George waited patiently in the dark, hope against hope, but soon the train groaned and jolted. It was up to him to do this alone. George turned his light on, surveying the crates stacked in the rectangular space. He picked his tool set up out of the one box and set his mind to the problem in the best way he knew how.

 _George? You have to ask yourself: what Would William Murdoch do?_


	10. Chapter 10

**EPILOGUE**

It was still full dark when their train pulled into the Yankee cathedral to transportation that was Grand Central Station, arriving at the platform precisely on time.

The Brackenreids and Murdochs sat facing each other on travel compartment benches while Henry slept it off in one of the other compartments. Julia had made sure that the poor bartender had not been poisoned (or aspirated), while William and the inspector set him loose in one of the toilets with their prayers for the best.

About a ninety minutes out from New York City, Malthus Owens announced he'd like to have a private moment with Korsky, Kleinhart and Mlle. De la Roche. Margaret and the inspector had already departed, quite believably, as if for an assignation. Julia was long gone as well, having finished her performance, leaving William alone with Mlle. De la Roche, much to his consternation. The woman pouted prettily at not being able to consummate her carnal intentions, then dismissed him with a deep, dramatic sigh. She then had the audacity to ask if William would remove her previous conquest, the intoxicated Henry Higgins.

William made a chivalrous exit with a sagging Henry in tow. The other man asleep in the club chair was ignored.

Since that time, the four of them changed back into their travelling clothes (William found a fresh shirt that was free of lip-rouge) and waited. There was nothing to be done _but_ wait.

William's nerves were shot: concern for George in particular, with general anxiety about how the whole "Zanzibar Market" ploy coming in a close second, his restlessness made it impossible to stay still.

"Sit down! Murdoch, for God's sake!" Brackenreid barked in annoyance. "It must have worked or we'd have heard about it."

"Indeed," Julia added. "I am curious who that other man in the lounge was. They must have been pretty sure he was incapacitated. Perhaps we were not the only ones with a sleeping draught in our pockets?"

"Exactly!" William complained. "We have no idea what happened in that lounge after we left…"

Julia spared them from hearing her husband repeat himself. "William, please. You were satisfied your decoy was adequate. George knew the plan and how to reassemble it, so trust him to have done so. After all," she said with a smile curling her lips primly, "you were able to think creatively on your feet to protect George from being discovered; I am sure he was able to contrive a solution as well."

William swallowed. Julia had studiously avoided directly mentioning his unfortunate entanglement with Honore De la Roche, all the while dropping double-edged quips. _I really cannot tell if she is actually angry or jealous, or just taking an opportunity to have some fun at my expense_. He also wasn't sure which was worse.

Defending his action as not his fault would open up a discussion he did not wish to have, especially in front of an audience of his superior. He chose deflection. "The real danger is going to be when the baggage car is opened. What if Mr. Owens or the winning bidder is suspicious, or God forbid sees George? Perhaps we should create a distraction…"

"We have to trust him, me ol' mucker. He's a crafty lad and all." Brackenreid reassured them, keeping his own worry to himself.

"I do trust George." Which was true; moreover, it was disrespectful to express such doubts so publically. William also heard the inspector's logic, which did nothing to assuage his guilty feelings. _It should be me in that baggage car._

"Of course you do, detective," Margaret added firmly. "We all did our parts, and so will Constable Crabtree. I am certain of it."

With a sudden jerk and a sway, the car came to a complete halt. Brackenreid sought his walking stick. "We will all feel better when we are off this train and see him, and going on about our business." He shook his head at the sour look still on his detective's face and chuckled, tapping his stick on the floor. "Look, Murdoch. Crabtree will be fine. You two can get to your first lecture by nine o'clock—something about making it easier to catch drunks, isn't it? That'll cheer you up!"

Picking up their hand bags, Margaret and Julia exited first, separating and mingling with other passengers to blend in. William and the inspector brushed Henry off and led him to the stairs, then the three of them separated as well, agreeing to delay reunifying until the baggage cars were emptied with the hope that Owens and his buyers would go their separate ways. William went into the main concourse; the engineering and architectural marvel he was surrounded by held no interest. After giving his baggage claim tickets to a porter, William planted himself in a window overlooking the train platform, eager to see George emerge. The thicket of passengers, crew members and baggage slowed, then even the volume of freight thinned to a trickle as another engine pulled in, dumping more people out of train cars. _Nothing._ Movement caught the corner of his eye: several uniformed police officers came up to the train quickly, then trotted back along towards the caboose. Alarm bells were going off in his head.

"Sir!"

William jumped a foot. "George?!" He was so glad to see George he nearly hugged him. "Where did you come from?" He said under his breath, looking around to see they were not observed. "How did it go?"

"It...er…went. I think it was Mr. Korsky that got your decoy, sir." George was smiling. "And I made sure our Canadian Officers, Mr. Brace and Mr. Penfield, got the original."

"How so?" William's pleasure at George's safety overflowed.

"Nobody considers the help any more than they do the wallpaper." George raised his eyebrows. "I used that gratuity I got from Mr. Owens to good advantage. Brace and Penfield believed the crate was in the first baggage carriage so I made sure it was moved there for them to receive. I smudged the substitute crate and label just as you said to, and I saw them take it off, quite satisfied."

"Did you see any of the other operatives hanging about?" William asked.

"No. I believe I overheard Mr. Korsky order the crate be sent down to another platform for another train. The Mademoiselle," George's smile was suggestive, "also stayed with the train and will go on to the next stop in Boston. We are free and clear!"

 _Thank God_ , was all William could think. "George, let's find the rest of us and get to our Hotel. I ordered a carriage and a cart with that telegram I sent. Let's hope they did not leave without us."

William located his crates and their baggage, and waited with them while George rounded up the others. Once settled in the carriage, all six relaxed with a collective sigh, laughing about the antics of the last twelve hours.

Julia saw her husband's dark look. "William, why the long look? We did it! What is bothering you?"

"I saw police giving a lot of attention to the end of the train just as George caught up with me. I started thinking that that other man in the lounge was not merely intoxicated and asleep." William speculated.

"Yes. I thought that was odd as well. I assumed he was either another operator or a body guard for Owens," Brackenreid added.

"Perhaps he was dead? Is that what you are thinking?" Henry looked a little green, but accepted the ribbing he got from George good-naturedly about his own passing out, explaining he thought he'd been drugged. "You know, detective, Mademoiselle De la Roche asked about songs from The Medal and the Maid."

"What about it, Higgins?" Brackenreid asked.

"Well, one of the songs is all about Zanzibar—do you think it as a coincidence?"

The carriage went silent. Margaret's eyes got huge. "Who knows? By the way, you play and sing well, Constable, quite entertaining. Certainly better than that old stuffy opera noise…"

Brackenreid groaned. "Here we go…"

"But I thought it was all quite exciting." Margaret caught her husband's eyes. "Too exciting. I, for one, will need to recuperate."

"As do I," Julia stated. "My first lecture is not until the afternoon. I think I will go to our rooms and not to the conference first thing."

William's face fell. "But, the presentation on lung exhalations! And we decided to attend the lecture on estimating blood volume loss…?" He looked around for any takers.

Henry waved him off. "Hey. Don't look at me, detective. My head…"

"I'll go with you sir," George offered.

William nodded. "Yes. Yes, it will be very instructive. And then you can help me set up our displays. I have several other investigators who are interested in what we brought along with us." As he spoke, he beheld George's face going through several changes. "What is it, George?"

"Well sir, there is a story about that. I mean, there was a slight accident with that decoy you prepared, so I had to improvise."

"See, I told you, Murdoch. Crabtree here had it well under control. Thinking in your feet, were you?" Brackenreid slapped his constable on the back.

"More like tripping over them sir," he mumbled. "The decoy became damaged in transit."

"What?" William barely got that out of tight lips. Margaret and Julia gasped, Brackenreid grunted.

"Y..y…yes. Well, I needed to fix that, so I just asked myself what you would do, detective. So I found your daylight in a box and got to work."

Julia was curious. "What did you do?" Beside her, her husband was tense.

George went on quickly. "I had to replace or repair what was broken, so I opened up our, er…packing crates and borrowed a few things."

William paused, gathering himself. "That was very creative. Did you find what you needed? A broken Edison bulb perhaps?"

"Yes. One of those." George started to sweat in the closed carriage. "It was a little more extensive than that…"

"George! You are being uncharacteristically evasive. What did you need to borrow?" William's hands clenched.

"Well, actually the entire bottom half of the decoy needed replacing, so I needed a large copper cylinder from your Trackizer, some smaller copper coils..."

William: "From where?"

George: "Your Induction Balance machine."

William: "The bottom half? So you need bulbs…"

George: "Your brain wave amplifier, and the box it came in…"

William: "Power source…?

George: "Weaponized Capacitor…"

William: "Output graph?"

George: "Graphizer…"

William: "Switches?"

George: "Scrutiny camera…"

William: "Glass cover to the rasterizer?"

George: "Ultra violet daylight in a box…"

William: "The signal collector?" By this time William heard the snickers from his wife and the inspector.

George: "For that I cannibalized the Distance Rotary Observation Navigation Engine, and used the rubber pulleys too."

William's hands were over his brow. "George, is there anything that I created that you did not use?"

"Well, I did need some of Dr. Ogden's clay. Then there is your suspect identification notebook…" George trailed off, wondering if the detective was ever going to speak with him again.

Julia thought William's expression was priceless, aware of how devastated he was (and the blow to his pride and excitement) in not being able to show off a decade's worth of hard work to colleagues. She was inspired to reframe it for him, placing a comforting hand on William's arm.

"George, you are to be commended," Julia began. "It seems your apprenticeship with the great detective Murdoch has truly borne fruit. You single-handedly pulled off an impressive, last minute switch and saved the day! Bravo to the both of you."

"Here, here!" Brackenreid agreed. "Now, enough of that. We are here in New York City and I am going to start enjoying it." He pulled out a bag of apples purchased from a street vendor and took a juicy bite. He offered them around. "Any takers..?"

 **-END-**

 **A/N: In my head I can see and hear the characters act out this story—hopefully you could as well. And did you hear the "Mission Impossible" theme song? …Clack, Clack, Click-clack….Clack, Clack, Click-clack. I tried a bunch of ways to get that in…. I took liberties with this story—one of those where you have to just go for it. I wanted to have some fun with characters. Left things dangling and if a train needed a small modification I gave it one and I made a lot of educated guesses.**

 **Thanx to IdBeDelighted for feedback and Dutch for additional amusing insights.**

 **Errors are my bad. Don't forget to write!**

 **1-800-How's–My-Writing—review are welcome**


End file.
